V for Vendetta

Echoes of the Veiled Mask

In the cold haze of midnight, a figure drifts through the city’s veins,
A torch‑sheathed silhouette against the soot‑scarred glass.
Sporting a Guy Fawkes face in crisp neon red,
He whispers to the night a quiet, defiant creed.

The London Eye spins slow, a slow‑moving clock in the sky,
While he chants the words of an old oath: “Nothing to fear.”
His trench coat billows like the banners of a civic fête,
And every footfall keeps a beat in the City’s circuitry.

No empire can hold its soul within a gilded cage;
The ever‑growing Corporation cant ’t be swept by a lorry’s rumble.
He parades a chalk‑drawn grave for the past, a stylised colour of warning.
V to every mind, the exile is a pundit in protest.

Beneath the brim of the de‑lantic hat lies an on-loose league
With ink‑sounding martyrdom and a skeletal script,
A new chapter for all who remember the Monarchy’s fall.
In the hush of a packed theatre, his voice finds its echo.

These fleeting lines are not a replica, but a call to all who can see—
That liberty is the deepest liberty that can ever bloom.
The mask stays on, the truth goes out, the dream of overseas
A quiet‑symphonic revolt that will never good‑night all.